Blood
by rockstarpeach
Summary: Dean's thoughts as he watches Castiel cut himself, and paint the symbol on the wall in 'Lucifer Rising'. Dean/Cas one-sided.


Dean paces, grinds his teeth together, walks around his so called green room, and wishes there was something he could do. Something to get back to Sam, or talk to him at least, let him know that the angels were bigger sons of bitches than they even thought, and they weren't going to save the world, not even close.

Needed to stop Sam from doing whatever the hell he was doing, because after talking with Zachariah, he was getting a sinking feeling, one that should have been obvious long ago, if only he didn't love Sam so damn much, didn't stand up for him, defend him, believe in him, no matter what.

But they both should have known, both did, really, and tried to ignore it, that Sam was the one that was going to release Lucifer, cause the apocalypse, invite hell on Earth. Dean had warned him, Sam had protested, and Dean, being blinded by brotherly love, had acquiesced, had really thought they could fight it, stop it. Until it was too late.

But now he knows, knows more than Sam, so much more, and he can't quite quash the feeling of older sibling superiority at the knowledge that he's the one with the answers at this point, knows enough to save the world, and that Sam only knows how to end it.

It's a cold comfort though, because Sam is the only thing that really matters to him, and fuck the rest of the goddamn world if he can save his brother. But he can't even do that. He can't do anything, because he's stuck here, in a heavenly prison, with burgers and beer and the promise of Ginger and Mary Anne, and while that's a damn hot threesome, he'd rather be able to tell Sam, in person, that he was sorry about what happened, would rather see his face, feel him wrapped in his arms, while they both apologised and forgave, and the Universe according to Winchester was set to rights.

But he can't get out. Can't do anything but wait. Can't exactly go pounding through the walls – he's tried – so the fact that he has the power to destroy even that tiny little statue that summoned Cas a half hour ago makes him feel powerful, and he almost smiles, both at the brief feeling of being an all powerful giant, and the crushing knowledge that he's nothing here. About as devastating as a mild summer breeze.

He considers tossing another statue to the floor with a seemingly thoughtless flick of his fingers, watching it shatter because he _wants_ it to, and then thinks, _fuck it_, and grabs a burger. It's not going to get him anywhere, he knows that. All he can do is try to keep himself busy and hope that Cas pulls his head out of his fuckin' ass, and decides to help him out, but he's not counting on it. And in the mean time… those burgers do look good…

And then the burger is gone, Castiel's hand on his, warmer than he remembers, and colder. It's a contradiction so stark that he doesn't even bother to argue, because despite everything, he really does trust Cas. He's the only thing Dean has ever met that has made him feel such extremes of emotion, and still had Dean coming back for more. He wants Cas, needs him, needs to be good, and needs for Sam to, and he thinks that Castiel is the only way, the only one that truly wants to help, even if he's scared shitless.

He's about to speak, about to argue, about to tell Cas to get the fuck off him or cough up a C note, the way Dean is pushed into the wall, Cas pressed against him intense and erotic, making Dean's limbs feel light, unstable. And then he sees the knife.

Okay, he feels it first, pressed to his gut, and then he looks down, and even if he wanted to say something he can't, and not because Castiel has his hand over Dean's mouth. No. Dean could shout through that, if he wanted, let all the other angels know he wasn't pleased, but there's something in the way Cas is looking at him.

Hard and pleading, and even more serious that Dean has ever seen the most serious angel he's met, and fuck, but Cas is pressing on him so damn forcefully, and Dean is getting _hard_ because of it. Because of Cas, because of the knife, because of the aggressive treatment, and he likes to joke with Sammy that he gets off on people going all butch on him, but it's not a joke now, not when Cas is doing it.

And he almost chokes on his tongue when he tries to talk, not that he'd be calling for help if sound had gotten out, and fuck, but he knows Cas feels his hard-on through his pants when the angel shifts his weight to hold Dean better, and Dean blushes red.

He swallows at Castiel's wide eyes, nods almost imperceptibly, and his tongue does not, damnit it does _not_, slip out through his lips to slide across Castiel's palm. Okay… maybe it does a little. But dude, it's so not his fault, not with Cas pressed close to him, hard body against his own, frightening and exciting Dean in equal measure, and yeah, Dean gets turned on by shows of superiority.

Castiel backs off slowly, once he seems sure that Dean isn't going to scream and give them away, and Dean swallows again, hold still, really, really still, because he doesn't trust himself to move at this point. And it's not because Cas is so damn irresistible, because Dean has been able to resist him this far, thanks so much, but because he has no idea what he's planning, no idea what he's going to do.

And that's funny, he has just enough time to think, that he trusts him _that much_, to keep quiet while he does whatever the hell he wants with a knife still in the vicinity of Dean's vital organs, before Cas slices the knife over the inside of his own forearm, over the veins. Not in a place that could bleed a human dry, not if they got help quickly, but Cas isn't a human, and his vessel can't run out of blood, or die any other way, as far as Dean knows.

Still, he gets the hell out of the way, makes a face, a 'what the hell' kind of a face, not that Cas is looking, and his fucking cock twitches in his pants, stupid fuckin' cock, when Castiel's fingers dip into the cut, coming up triumphant, a handful of blood.

Dean thinks he sees the angel look at him, as if he's looking for affirmation, but he can't be, because this is fucking _Castiel_, and he's an _angel_, and he doesn't give a shit what Dean thinks about anything, so Dean shakes it off, doesn't bother hoping.

Can't anyway, because then Cas is painting on the wall, fingers dipping back into the slash on his arm, coming away with more and more blood every time, fingers smearing it into some pattern on the wall he can't identify, and fuck, _fuck_, but the sight of that blood is affecting him in ways it very much shouldn't.

His cock is only getting harder, his mouth dryer, his eyes stupider, even as Cas looks back at him every second or so, between brush strokes on the wall, to see if Dean's still with him. Dean doesn't know if he is or not, doesn't know what Cas is doing, only knows that he looks… good. So fucking good, so fucking good and Dean is _freaked out_.

The blood looks… Dean doesn't even know, just knows that he has to watch it, watch Cas, watch him work, watch what's inside him come out and Dean trusts that it's good, that it's going to help.

He hears Zachariah's voice suddenly, but it sounds far off, like he's not really there, but Dean knows he must be, and he tries to care. Instead, he watches, as Cas's hand lifts from his arm, blood thick and rich on his fingers, and moves again to the wall, as if in slow motion.

And then Dean knows he's screwed, because he knows Cas must be moving as fast as he can, and if Dean can't even keep up, he's going to screw the pooch, hard.

He wants to do something, say something, something to help Castiel, but he can't stop looking at him, at the blood, bright, bright red, and making his whole body tingle, just the sight of it, and his fucking cock won't shut the hell up.

He sees Zach now, out of the corner of his eye, coming toward them, and Dean knows he should be frightened, should be worried about what's going to happen, because Zach is higher up on the heaven scale than Cas is, and he is freaked out, but…

Cas has blood on his hands, Dean still can't get over that. His own goddamn blood, and he's painting… something, Dean still doesn't know, and he wishes he did, but he doesn't, and he's scared of that, too, even though he wants to believe that Cas is doing what's right. And again, Dean looks at the blood, Cas's blood, covering his arm, his fingers, the wall, and Cas seems so matter-of-fact about it, and Dean bites his lip, curses his stupid-ass cock for not realising how sick this is.

Because it should be sick. Dean should be weirded out, he knows that, but he isn't. Cas looks… good like this. Bleeding and desperate and looking to Dean for help. Dean wants to help him, fix the missing lines on the wall with his own blood, lick the wasted blood from Cas's body, sit back and jerk off while he watches Cas paint the whole fucking world in his blood, because it's way damn hotter than it should be, and Dean wants to fucking cream his jeans right there.

Dean's knees feel week, thinking what he's been thinking, because he knows what demon blood has done to his brother, and he can only imagine what Cas is trying to do here, looking at the bright red stains on the pale paint. Angel's blood has got to be even more powerful than demon, and yeah, Cas is an angel, and he's supposed to be good, but Dean knows angels are pretty much dicks, as a rule, and whatever mojo he's working is scaring him more than the threat of Zach ripping both of their lungs out. At least it is when he's thinking straight.

It's also kind of… hot. The look on Cas's face isn't quite as intense as it normally is as he works, it's almost panicked now. Almost. But Dean doesn't think Cas is even capable of panic, so detached, in control, confident, and has Dean mentioned the blood?

Because yeah, he's panicking, even if Cas isn't, and he's… licking his lips. Shit. The cut on Cas's arm is deep, deep enough to fill a fuckin' bucketful, and a pint of it is probably covering the wall and still there's some dripping down his wrist, across his hand, and sliding off his fingertips to land in a growing puddle on the floor, and Dean shivers.

Cas doesn't even notice, just keeps painting, glancing back at Dean every second to make sure he's still there, like he's scared Dean will disappear. Dean is starting to fear that himself.

He tries to be scared, tries to think properly, tries not to look at the crimson smear across the wall so pale it was asking for it, but of course he can't, and, yup, what Cas is doing is way too sexy.

There's definitely something wrong with him. There is. Because Sam is the blood drinker in the family, not him, but right now, nothing in the world looks better. He can't decide if he wants to get down on his knees, take those strong, blood soaked fingers into his mouth, lick them clean, mouth closing around the long digits, sucking on the tips, warm fluid over his tongue and down his throat… or if he wants to do all that with Cas's cock.

This is messed up, what he's thinking, he knows that, knows he needs to snap the hell out of it and save Sam, and then there's a flash. And then Cas is saying something, looking at him urgently, like he's kind of slow, which, yeah, okay he is right now, but dude… the _blood_!

It's not his fault Cas is so damn pretty when he bleeds!

Dean blinks, swallows, tries to get his brain to work properly again, because he can vaguely hear Cas telling him they don't have much time, and he's having a conversation with him, about Sam and Lilith and saving the world, and all he can think is _blood_.

Cas's blood, down his arm, in Dean's mouth, swirling around his tongue and down his throat. Thick, and rich and heady. Powerful, sweet, giving him what he needs to… No. No, that's not going to happen. Sam perverted himself, made himself something other than human, but Dean isn't going to. No. Instead he tries to breath, tries to trust, tries not to fuck himself against an angel because of his hijacked libido.

Cas hands him the knife, the knife that he used to cut himself, and Dean takes it, wants to put it in his mouth, to lick it clean, slide the blade across his tongue and let his own blood mix with Castiel's, and his cock is so hard he can't see straight.

And damn, he thinks, as Cas puts his hand on his arm, over his scar, _Castiel's_ scar, proof of ownership, the scar he sometimes touches while he jerks off in the dark. Damn, he wishes that hand would touch him somewhere else.

He barely has time to blush a deep shade of red, as Cas looks him quizzically, accusingly, like he can read his mind, like he knows what a pervert Dean is, before the world turns white, and he grips his angel tight, and Dean hopes he won't bring this up again almost more than he hopes that Cas is taking him to Sam.

_Sam_, he thinks, in the haze of angel-assisted transport, trying to clear his head before they land… wherever they land, if you can even call it landing. _Sam_. Not Cas, not blood, not deft fingers painting a pretty picture to save the world, thick red fluid smeared and dripping, and so damn tempting he'd sell his first born.

This is about Sam for him right now, he has to remember that. Not about stopping Lilith or Lucifer or stopping hell on Earth. It's about Sam.

And maybe it is all about blood.

END


End file.
